Favourite Sin
by Baby-Firecracker
Summary: Her voice is scratchy and rough from lack of use but there's still something satisfying in her first words, "My name is Charlotte Matheson. I'm the niece of Miles Matheson, co-founder of the Monroe-Matheson Republic." Charloe.
1. Prologue

I know another one but it wouldn't leave me alone!

Things you need to know Miles didn't leave Bass. Militia still killed Ben but for unrelated reasons to the show and Danny still died later on but it had nothing to do with Bass/Miles. Charlie went looking for Miles but got abducted along the way.

Everything else will be revealed in the story.

Disclaimer: I do not own Revolution or anything else that you recognise.

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Prologue

She's been here four days.

Four days of beatings, starvation, interrogationsand being left to lay in her own filth**.** Her mouth tastes like moth balls and her chest feels like it's weighted down by lead. She doesn't mind it as much as they think she does. It's familiar actually, oddly comforting, it reminds her of the Pits. That's where they found her, where she'd called her home before they busted in and slaughtered most that had been there. She'd been there for a year, she'd been picked up outside New Vegas, been told she'd make a pretty penny for her _services_, only she didn't play too well with others. They hadn't touched her since she'd wrapped a chain link around the first client's neck and pulled until it'd made that resounding crack. So they'd put her on display instead, used to entice customers in. She was good at it too, been told that just her blue eyes alone were hypnotising. Apparently the Militia soldiers agreed; herself and a handful of the girls had been spared, the only difference being that those other girls were safely tucked away with high ranking officers who'd took a shine to them. She'd refused to whore herself out so here she was; a war prisoner. It's almost laughable. She hasn't been a fighter for a very long time, not since Danny.

She still hasn't spoken, hasn't given them the satisfaction. She shouldn't have had to, if they'd took one look at the dog tags around her neck they'd have all the answers they needed but it didn't matter. They didn't matter, they were nothing but foot soldiers sent to deal with the filth, do the dirty work so those in charge don't have to. So she waits. She'll wait until someone more important shows face and then she'll talk.

Oh, she'll talk.

It's been eight days. They feed her now although the beatings don't stop; Strausser seems to take perverse pleasure in trying to coax out cries of pain before relenting and sending in her meals. Servants bring her plentiful plates of food with varying expressions on their faces, some pitying, some disgusted but some, some are awestruck. It almost makes her want to talk but she doesn't. It won't be long now.

She's heard the whispers outside her cell. President Monroe and General Matheson are coming back in two days. Two days and Monroe gets to decide what to do with her, apparently they don't have as much leeway in the Capital as they do outside it, they can't just off her and be done with it or worse take her unwillingly; apparently there are strict rules about that. Colour her surprised, they didn't seem to have a problem with taking unwilling women back in her hometown.

It's been ten days. Her skins been scrubbed raw, blood and grime washed from her hair and they've let her put her dress back on. It's as short and tight as she remembers and she both loves and loathes it. If it wasn't for her dark ringed eyes and varying shades of bruises she'd say she looked almost normal.

President Monroe is home and willing to see her straight away, Captain Baker quietly informs her, tugging up her strap and looking like he's done her the world's biggest favour. Maybe he has, he could have kept her in her cell, let Strausser have his way with her finally but he didn't so maybe she owes him. Maybe she won't slit his throat open given the opportunity.

The walk to Monroe's office is a long one and she's sort of grateful they didn't force her feet into her towering heels, the cool marble feels nice but it doesn't change the fact that her body is beaten to its extent, she's exhausted and the only thing keeping her upright is Baker. He smooth's a hand down her hair comfortingly as they wait outside the large wooden doors disregarding the odd looks he gets off his fellow officers as he does so and all she can think about is Danny, Danny who was always so fascinated with her hair. She decides then and there that no, she won't kill him.

They're summoned inside and the movement makes her force bile back down her throat. She steadies herself, her bleary gaze locking on the imposing man before her. She doesn't remember much about him pre-blackout, just the bright blue eyes and wide smile. He's actually kind of handsome, she thought he'd be disgusting, fat or at the very least disfigured in some sort of way. Maybe it's just his soul that's dark and damaged.

His eyes sweep down her body approvingly but she hears the small tut he gives at the sight of her various wounds. That's nice; the evil dictator who has slaughtered hundreds is disappointed in his men's treatment of her. She feels like she should be honoured. He side glances at Strausser who stares back unflinching but she catches the slight nervous twitch as he swallows. It seems he does fear someone after all.

Baker is giving him the rundown, where they found her, that she was unwilling to cooperate once rescued, violent even. That she hasn't spoken a word the entire time she's been here. She listens impassively, watches Monroe, stares back as he stares at her. His lips tug up into a half smirk at her stubbornness.

"So what do we call her?"

Baker blinks once, twice before answering slowly, "She didn't say."

Monroe only seems amused by his answer before he turns to her again, "What's your name, sweetheart?"

Baker sighs while Strausser looks away in exasperation, they've played this game before, they know the results. But that was before, things are different now.

Her voice is scratchy and rough from lack of use but there's still something satisfying in her first words, "My name is Charlotte Matheson. I'm the niece of Miles Matheson, co-founder of the Monroe-Matheson Republic."

She takes great pleasure in the way Baker chokes on thin air as he stares at the side of her face wide eyed, the way Strausser blanches and goes pale looking like he'd love to be anywhere but there. Monroe's smile slips from his lips as they part in shock, something dark passing through his eyes as they cut to Strausser. They all flounder for something to say, Monroe even takes a step towards her but they needn't have.

"Charlie?!"

The voice is rough and deep and despite the tone of shock it's exactly how she remembers it. Miles Matheson's standing in the doorway looking completely shell-shocked. He might not remember her; from the look on his face he's having a hard time placing her from the happy toddler he'd played with but she remembers him. So she lets go, lets her brain turn off and her body gives out almost immediately, tumbling to the floor as it takes a reprieve from the pain she's in.

It was okay now, she'd found Uncle Miles, just like Dad had told her too.


	2. Chapter 1

Well since I was not expecting the response I got for this story, I haven't put the finishing touches on the official next chapter. So as a thank you I've put a little filler chapter up early.

This was just meant to be a little side project for when I had writers block for my other stories. Thank you so much.

Charloe interaction next chapter!

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Chapter One

She doesn't know how long it's been but she knows something's changed.

Instead of the cold blood slicked concrete beneath her head it's soft and bouncy, so much so she finds herself sinking further into it, unused to the luxury. The room isn't dark and damp, there's no clanging of metal on metal from prisoners rattling their chains. She can feel warmth on her face though she does not open her eyes to greet the sun, she can hear birds chirping outside the window. It's the most peaceful feeling she's had in over two years. For half a moment she thinks she's dead. Then she hears the murmurs; quiet and angry as they demand an explanation, there's footsteps pacing outside the room she's residing in and there's cool fingers stroking back her hair from her forehead.

It's only then that she realises someone's touching her without her consent. Her hand shoots out, fingernails biting into the smooth skin of the stranger's wrist using the momentum to barrel forward, her other forearm pressing against their throat. Her eyes finally open and lock onto the wide coffee coloured orbs of the woman beneath her. Oddly she doesn't fight back. Instead she places a gentle hand on the arm that's so close to crushing her throat.

Her name is Nora Clayton and she isn't here to hurt her.

It's been a long time since she looked into someone's eyes and seen pure truth there. So she eases up her grip, lets her shuffle awkwardly upright, but she doesn't move from her position straddling her thighs nor does she let go of her wrist. It wouldn't be the first time someone's had her fooled. Nora doesn't protest, seemingly content to let her sit there in silence, letting her get her bearings.

The rooms unlike anything she's ever seen before, all dark ornate wood and heavy drapes. It looks like something out of a romance novel. The beds a four poster and remarkably soft; she resists the temptation to lay back down and never resurface.

Nora clears her throat, twice, to get her attention, "Its Charlotte, right?"

She bites her tongue against the rebellious urge to correct her, to snappishly inform her that it's Charlie. She hasn't been Charlie for a very long time. Charlie had been full of wonder and hope; dying to explore the world, she'd seen the best in people, full of wisdom no teenager had the right to have. Dad had said she was an old soul but Duncan, Duncan said she was jaded. Because Duncan had met Charlotte; Charlotte who'd lost that passion, who recognised the evil in people and who knew they were lucky if they survived another year.

Sometimes she really missed being Charlie.

So she nods. Nora brightens at the response happy to have got one at all. She wonder who this woman is to Miles to care so much about his niece, a woman she'd never met, a woman _Miles_ has never met. She supposes she could be here of her own accord but she doubts it, she also doubts its Monroe's bed she warms at night. He has no blood tie to her; there would be no reason for him to send in his lover, someone he trusts, to care for her.

It seems her guess is right when Miles enters the room and looks momentarily concerned at their positions but Nora quickly assures him that they're okay. Monroe steps in behind him, Baker quick on his heels. They stop short as they spot them but neither says a word. Miles take a step towards them, then another, slow and precise like he's approaching a wild animal. She rolls her eyes, she's far from feral. To placate him, she rocks back onto her heels, granting Nora freedom but the other woman doesn't vacate the bed, merely shifts herself into a more comfortable position.

Her dress rides up, something everyone is quick to notice but she pays it no mind. She'd lost any and all delicate feelings of embarrassment over her nudity a while ago. Nora doesn't seem to share her sentiment as she drapes a blanket over her legs, hiding them from prying eyes. Everyone just kind of stands and stares, no one knowing where to begin.

Baker shifts, his eyes darting to the back of Miles head before resting on her as he asks candidly, "So how'd you end up in a whorehouse?"

Monroe closes his eyes in exasperation, mumbling that he had absolutely no filter. Miles looks livid like Baker's one word away from getting a face full of his fist. Nora just scoffs looking entirely too used to Baker's lack of tact.

"Brothel." She corrects because whorehouse is not the proper term, "It was a brothel. I got picked up outside of New Vegas last year."

Miles looks a little green as he gestures between himself and Monroe, "We were in New Vegas a year ago."

"I know."

That stumps him. That she'd been there for him and he hadn't known. That she'd been put through hell in her search for him. She can see the guilt there; can see the wheels turning in his head. She can predict his next question before the words even leave his lips.

"Where's Ben?" He pauses like he knows the answer already before quietly asking "Where's Danny?"

"Dead."

It still hurts, but she pushes on. Tells them Militia had killed Ben. Sweet Ben Matheson who'd gallantly stepped in front of a commanding officer who'd taken to beating an elderly man for not paying all his taxes. That there had been a scuffle and he'd took a bullet. That her and Danny had left town with a few others on their fathers command that they find Miles but they kept missing him. That they'd got tangled up with Rebels who hadn't took too kindly to their lineage. They'd planned on using them for ransom to draw Miles out but Danny had fought back. Danny took six bullets to the chest and died instantly.

She doesn't say that she died that day too.

Instead she says she'd wandered for a while, went to find her Grandpa but couldn't make herself walk through the town's gates. Then she'd heard Monroe was in New Vegas and she figured if he was then Miles was too. But she didn't get that far. Gould had caught up with her before she could reach them, used her to turn a profit and then a year later Militia came and took her. She tells them that at first she'd fought, that she'd demanded to see Miles Matheson. She tells them how they laughed in her face, how they threw her in the cells when she wasn't willing to perform for them. She ignores the way Baker becomes sheepish at her explanation.

Miles doesn't ask why she hadn't asked for him again because he knows why. Knows Strausser wouldn't have believed a word out of her mouth, he'd of thought it was a ploy to save her skin. His mouth opens but no words come out. Instead he stares and she knows that he's caught the glint of the dog tags that rest against her chest and recognises them as his own. She's literally wearing his name around her neck and no one thought to question it. Monroe catches the look on his face, his brow furrowing in confusion as his best friend storms out of the room in a fit of rage. But then he spies them too and his eyes lift to meet hers.

The both know someone was going to die tonight.


End file.
